Forgiveness

I knock at the door.

“Come in,” his voice, rough and flinty, muffled by the door.

I smell the fire, god how I love that smell, the way it brings comfort and the sense of being home, even though this is not my home but his. He’s sitting in the wing chair, the fire crackling in the grate, the sinking sun and the flames cast shadows across his handsome face, so that only half of it is illuminated, the other side fades into the fast approaching gloom.

“You’re late,” he nearly hisses, “almost an hour late. You didn’t call. Nothing.”

“My phone died, love, there must be something wrong with the battery I just charged it,” I ramble on in the way I do when his disposition makes me tense.

“And your excuse. For being late.”

He is my polar opposite, calm and clipped. That tone stirs my groin and makes my heart beat faster. It’s a fight or flight reaction coupled with arousal. Part of me wants to turn and head out the door, but a much bigger part accepts that without doubt I will not be doing so.

“I just got behind, everything seemed to take longer then it should and then my phone…”

“I see. And you think that excuses you?”

“No, it…it just wasn’t intentional, love,” I say coming towards him and taking his warm hands in mine, still chilled from the frigid New York evening. He allows me to do so but makes no moves to draw me closer.

I kneel at his feet, my coat still wrapped tightly around me, feeling the warmth of the fire on my face. He is shirtless and wears only cotton pajama pants. The house is warm and the fire warms it further. I bring his hand to my face, I want to kiss it, but I can’t – not yet. I feel an overwhelming need to simply hold it there, rotating it this way and that, examining the strong fingers, seeing them in my mind deftly tying rope around my thighs, softly easing open my labia to further reveal my sex, gripped tightly around the cane when he brings it to my lips for a kiss before bloodying my bottom, or when he brings his hand to my face to gently brush away an errant lock of hair. I see his knuckles still bruised from his recent bout of boxing and am reminded of the brute power held with in him, generally so tightly leashed.

“Hang up your coat, Tess,” he says easing my anxiety somewhat. When he’s angry he rarely calls me by my name; it’s either bitch or slut. Of course, it might also mean he is so angry that he is attempting to control himself by using innocuous terms.

I walk back to the hallway, take off my long black wool coat, put it on a heavy wood hanger and wrap my scarf around it. Turning back to him and smoothing my skirt, I see that he has risen and now stands before the fire, his back to me. His back is so well defined and muscled; I love to watch in the mirror the way they ripple under his skin when he’s on top of me.

My approach is tentative. When I can’t see his face, read his expression, I have learned it pays to be cautious. It is like living with a trained tiger; his feral nature may be tamed by an overlay of civility and manners, but just below the surface dwells the beast. His true nature can not be tucked neatly away for too long.

In an attempt to quell his annoyance with me, I wrap my arms around his waist, letting my cheek press against the soft heat of his back. He allows me to linger there, absorbing his warmth, for only a moment before he turns abruptly enough to knock me off balance. His arm grabs for the front of my blouse, preventing me from falling.

With his right hand still holding my blouse, he reaches with his left and slaps my face. The sound is sharp, as is my sudden intake of breath. Part of me would be pleased if I thought that by causing me pain, his would vanish. His torment will eased, albeit temporarily, by punishing me. I know this and sometimes, when I think he needs release, I will knowingly do something of which he disapproves. This isn’t one of those times; I want nothing more then to take him in my mouth, to feel him grow there, while my fingers grasp his buttocks hard enough to leave little indented crescents. I want to feel his release in my mouth, the warm corporeal evidence of his satisfaction sprayed down my throat. To have him take my face in his hands afterwards, kiss me lightly on the forehead, and whisper ‘good girl, my good girl’. To lie quietly in his arms, his chest pressed to my back, surrounded in him: protected, loved, treasured.

Instead he shoves me away, disgustedly, bruising my shin as it collides with small table on which he keeps whatever he is currently reading. The bruise to my flesh is nothing compared to the one on my soul each time he pushes me away. My eyes well up with tears.

He kneels down beside me, grabs my wrist tightly in his fingers and squeezes until I whimper. My eyes lock on his, silently begging him to stop.

“Don’t you trust me, pet?” he says, his free hand stroking my cheek, calming me.

I know better then to hesitate with my answers, but at this moment the answer is not really a simple yes or no, and one those is the only answer that will suffice. I trust him, but I fear him as well. When his eyes are dark and veiled, when he looks at me but I know he looks through me, the fear can overwhelm the trust.

“Yes, I trust you” I manage to mumble.

As the last syllable escapes my lips, his hand propels mine towards the glass fireplace doors.

“Nooooooooo,” is all I can manage as his grips tightens pulling me forward despite my resistance.

He holds my hand there; less then a quarter inch from the glass, the heat is blistering. Time has stopped for me. All I am aware of is the heat, the pain in my wrist from his grasp, and the thumping of my heart.

“Stop struggling, bitch” he growls, “NOW.”

His command stills me, and just as I will myself to start breathing again, he presses my hand to the glass sending pain searing through my palm. He pulls my hand back almost instantaneously, but it is enough to blister my skin.

Blinking my eyelashes, heavy with tears, I catch his eye. He holds my gaze for a moment and then nonchalantly places his own palm to the glass, making sure to hold it there longer then he held mine.

As he rises and walks out of the room, I curl myself into a ball on the floor, silently sobbing into my hands. I don’t want to look at my palm, I know it’s blistered but I just can’t bear to see the concrete evidence of his sadistic nature. I know it; I’ve known it all along. He is not one to deny who and what he is. What I don’t always know is why I stay.

He returns, an ice pack pressed to his left hand and another in his right for me. He places them on sofa, kneels and lifts me into his muscled arms, gently carrying me over; he places the ice pack in my hand. The cool feels insanely wonderful. I must be insane, I think.

He kisses my face, letting his tongue glide over my lips which I stubbornly refuse to open. He catches my lower lip between his teeth and gently bites. I moan in response, my treacherous sex throbs in anticipation of his attentions.

He places my buttocks at the very edge of the sofa, pushes my panties to my ankles and over my feet, my shoes have been kicked off in the earlier struggle.

“Stay like that,” he whispers as he rises and again leaves the room.

When he comes back, he holds one of his many rosaries. His fingers entwined in the strand, he kneels between my legs, nudging them open a little wider.

The soft sound of him whispering his prayers, with his lips pressed against my sex, reaches my ears.

ETERNAL FATHER, I offer You the Sacred Heart of Jesus, with all its love, all its sufferings, and all its merits.

First, to expiate all the sins I have committed this day and during all my life. Glory be, to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit. As it was in the beginning, is now, and shall ever be, world without end. Amen.

Second, to purify the good I have done poorly this day and during all my life. Glory be, to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit. As it was in the beginning, is now, and shall ever be, world without end. Amen.

Third, to supply for the good I ought to have done, and that I have neglected this day and all my life. Glory be, to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit. As it was in the beginning, is now, and shall ever be, world without end. Amen.

His prayer makes my eyes wet again. The internal punishment he extracts upon himself is greater then any punishment I, with my soft heart, would ever impose.

I feel the smooth, cool onyx of the beads soaking up my warmth as they roll against my wetness. He repeats this prayer again and again, never taking his lips from between my thighs, as his fingers worry the beads.

My orgasm signals the end of his prayer. Pleasure replaces the pain that still throbs in my hand. Wave after wave of sweet release, my thighs press tightly to his face, his tongue drinking in all my juices.

When the last shudder rocks my body, he brings his face to meet mine, the hardness in his dark eyes evaporated as if it was never there.

As his lips meet mine, I whisper, “Amen,” through the tears which have not stopped flowing; from pain, from sorrow, from love and from ecstasy.

His eyes lock on mine, “Forgive me, forgive me” he says softly.

He needn’t ask.

I already have.

~ by tesstorn on December 22, 2005.